Page 69 of Tides of Resistance
Yet.
All that would change with the Atlantic Wall fortifications at Portelet. Lizzie clung to the hope it was false information designed to throw informants off the trail when reporting to the Allies on German operations, but Uncle Charles believed it was real.
Lizzie strained for sounds from the cottage but could hear nothing but the wind ruffling the leaves in the tall trees and the churn of the waves below. But this was her only chance to see her grandparents, and her gut guided her to take the risk as if she sensed their presence nearby, drawing her closer like a homing pigeon.
With that decision, she scanned the area for sentries. All was quiet and still, so she crept to the front of the cottage and touched the door latch, pressing lightly. It didn’t budge.
Damn it, the door was locked.
There was no time to waste, so she made a dash around the back and took cover by the lilac bush as she surveyed the small property. A sweet fragrance overpowered her, and she was instantly gripped by poignant memories. The image of herself as a little girl, picking bunches of lilac blooms to surprise her mother, pirouetted through her mind.
Tears filled her eyes, and she gulped, fighting the turmoil. Seagrove was occupied by an evil force, but the lilac bush, planted long before she was born, still flourished.
Crossing the back garden, Lizzie put her ear against the door, listening for voices. No sound. The minutes ticked by, and she questioned her earlier conviction. In the old days, the doors were never locked, but it could be different now with the enemy on the doorstep.
If troops were using the cottage as their barracks, she doubted they would leave it unguarded. The soft lighting behind the blackout curtains, and the peaceful house pointed to civilians, not soldiers in residence.
Shaking, she reached out her hand, her fingers touching the iron latch, and as she pressed with her thumb, the latch lifted silently. Lizzie opened the kitchen door and slipped inside, adrenaline rushing through every sinew, giving her the courage to face whatever awaited her on the other side.
The kitchen was lit only by candlelight, and her eyes took time to adjust. She blinked and stared at the small figure sitting in a chair at the kitchen table. The woman rose, her mouth falling open.
‘Lizzie!’ her grandmother gasped, staring at her as if she’d seen a ghost.
Lizzie pressed her finger to her lips and crossed the small room, tears springing from her eyes and spilling onto her cheeks. The pent-up angst of the years they had been parted was like the eruption of a volcano. Nan opened her arms wide, tears streaming down her face too, as Lizzie rushed into her embrace and they rocked together, overcome by emotion.
‘When, what, how?’ Nan spluttered between sobs and tears.
‘I’ll tell you what I can, but I only have a few hours and then I must leave.’
Nan hugged her granddaughter tightly to her as if she would never let her go, and Lizzie could barely catch her breath.
‘Where’s Pops?’ Lizzie croaked.
Nan pointed to the door, and Lizzie sank onto a chair, drained as relief washed over her and the rush of sneaking around the grounds dissipated. She had feared the worst when her grandfather wasn’t in the kitchen. She had feared the worst for them both, and seeing her grandmother alive and well was the answer to hundreds of bedtime prayers.
‘He’s going to think he’s dreaming when he sees you!’ Nan said, crossing the kitchen in her scruffy slippers and turning the key in the lock, defiance flickering in her eyes. ‘Now tell me how on earth you got here!’
Lizzie watched her grandmother crouch to stoke the embers of the stove, and the comforting hiss of the kettle proclaimed tea would soon be served.
‘You must be hungry, my love,’ Nan said, pursing her lips as she studied Lizzie. ‘You’re thin as a rake. I don’t have much to offer you at this hour, but how about some bread and butter?’
Lizzie said that sounded perfect, and she devoured a slice of bread with a scrape of yellow butter. ‘Oh, my goodness, I’ve missed this taste! There’s nothing like Jersey butter.’
At that moment, a familiar face appeared as the door gradually opened. Lizzie jumped to her feet and went to fling herself at Pops, who did indeed look as though he were dreaming.
‘My girl! What on earth? I mean, how …?’ He too was rendered speechless just like Nan, but he hugged her against his wiry frame.
They gazed at each other and hugged again, tears of joy running down the old man’s face. ‘I wondered if we’d ever see the day,’ he exclaimed finally when he sat down at the table opposite Lizzie.
There were only two chairs, and Lizzie saw how modestly they lived in the little cottage. ‘How did you come to be living here?’ she asked.
‘How did you know to find us here?’ Nan asked.
Lizzie cautioned them to speak in hushed tones. ‘No one must suspect I’m here. I saw only one guard in the grounds. How many are there usually?’
Pops said there didn’t used to be any, but recently some soldiers moved into the main house, which was when they weretold they must move into the cottage as unpaid caretakers. ‘We maintain the gardens in exchange for living in our own property!’
Nan touched her husband’s arm. ‘It’s not so bad. Many have it much worse. You should see the labourers the Boche have shipped in. They treat them like slaves.’
